John's Lament
by BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: John, suffering from severe depression, turns to his childhood cure. Self-injury. It's slowly getting worse and the wounds are becoming deeper and deeper but no one seems to care. Even worse? Sherlock doesn't even seem to notice as John starts to slowly kill himself. Warning: Triggers. Read at own risk.
1. Chapter 1

The flat was quiet, rare for Baker Street, and its lone resident sighed. Sherlock had been gone for hours, off gallivanting with the Scotland Yard as they presumably chased after yet another murder.

The silence was infuriating to say the least.

For years he'd been alone, sure, but this was different. He'd tasted the sweet flavor of companionship- love even?-and now was being taunted for it.

Sherlock had told him that he was nothing but a hindrance, a bump in the road. It was far from the first time the lanky man had snapped at him, but this time had been the worse by far. He had the hand print across his hallowing cheeks to prove it.

Everything felt heavy, like all of Sherlock's emotional baggage had been dumped into his arms for him to trudge along with toward the unknown. He hadn't felt like this since his teen years, when homophobia was at its peak. Even back then John didn't think he had felt this bad.

The tears slowly dripped down John's face, clinging to his pale skin before dropping onto his fluffy jumper.

"Am I truly that worthless, Sherlock? Would you miss me if I left?"

John's voice was chocked, full to the brim with feelings of pain. He tried to blink the tears away but they just seemed to keep coming. His hands were shaking, even years of war couldn't make betrayal of the worst kind a softer blow.

"Would you miss me if I died?"

The question was stupid, almost automatic but it still made his throat tighten. No, he shouldn't say that. Death was something no one should mess with.

Standing up the army doctor limped to the stairs, ascending with hardly any grace. John was surprised that he hadn't fallen yet. Cold was John's first thought. His room was freezing, the open window the obvious cause. His shoulders shivered under the thin jumper but his feet didn't feel like treading across the cold floorboard to close it.

Instead he sat down on the perfectly made bed, years of abuse marring the sheets. Slumping, a thoughtless hand drifted to the top drawer of the dresser by his hip. A second thought drifted through his head before yanking it open and pulling out the desired object.

A razor blade, one made for shaving, glinted in the fading sunlight as it showed off its sharp edge.

The drawer slammed shut, and John laid back against the pillows. He pulled up his sleeve, the endless rows of scars visible, but just barely.

The tears didn't come as John felt the slick blade cut through, revealing blood. Normal, crimson blood.

It was perhaps one of the only things normal in his life.

Drifting off as the blood stemmed, John looked down and with Sherlock's words fresh in his head, made another line.

One after another, the lines blossomed with beautiful blood and stained the sheets. John didn't care if Sherlock found him this way- that would be unlikely, his mind supplied.

The ex soldier, beaten down and weary, just wanted to sleep.

Then, if he was lucky, never wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock returned around 2 in the morning, and John knew this because he was still bandaging his arm. He'd gone a little deeper than he'd thought, but the bleeding was slowing down. He shoved down his sleeve as the door flung open. The lanky consulting detective yelped something about the case before crashing down the stairs.

John didn't even have the strength to get up and close the door.

He could hear metal and bones clanking downstairs, and cringed as glass shattered against the floor. What was the man up to now?

Hissing when he jarred his wounds the army doctor limped down the stairs. The living room was a mess to put it lightly. Sherlock was digging through a pile of books and what-not. The skull was dangling on the edge of the mantle dangerously, but rolled back onto its mandible.

Sherlock did not say anything about his presence, or the fact John's face was pale from his session with the razor blade. He just simply threw a book over, instructed his flat mate to find out what chemical made up Wolfram then went back to digging.

John set the book down.

"Sherlock, what are you doing to our flat?" John asked, and cursed as his voice shook. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his tremor and his eyes ran over the doctor's frame.

"Are you stupid, John? Even a mind as small as yours should be able to figure it out! Even Anderson, the bumbling fool, saw it!" Sherlock sighed, making wild expressions with his hands. The blue eyes of the man burned with energy.

John felt as if Sherlock had taken the blade to his heart.

"I'm sorry my stupidity disgusts you. I'll just go back upstairs. Don't ruin Mrs. Hudson's flat." John told him in an almost whisper, clutching as his arm as the blood began to soak through the bandages.

Sherlock was going to be the death of him.

It was hours before Sherlock's quest for the case's answer was quieted by their landlady's demand, and the flat was once again silent. John decided he did not like silence.

There were tears in his eyes, and it was an odd feeling. He didn't cry. Bollocks, he hadn't cried since he was a child! Despite all that, the tears continued to form. The soldier pulled a pillow to his side, smothering his face, cries and tears in the worn out fabric. John would not let Sherlock hear him break, that was unacceptable.

* * *

Lestrade set down the report, Sherlock's coat tails snapping behind him as he entered the office. The consultant, beaming, shoved a piece of paper in the police officer's face.

"What's this?" Lestrade asked dumbstruck, staring at the complex sequence of numbers. He made his head spin just looking at it.

"The code the killer used, obviously, Lestrade." Sherlock scoffed, puffing out his chest like a proud cat. "It was quiet easy to-,"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, Sherlock." Lestrade growled, rubbing his forehead as an ache came on. The man was on the end of his rope.

Sherlock frowned, studying the Yard employee's face. His eyes scanned anything in the office for clues, but Lestrade caught him.

"Can you leave, Sherlock? I have work to do."

"Hardly. I've done it all for you." Sherlock smirked, but Lestrade gritted his teeth. Sherlock was driving him crazy!

"I said leave, Sherlock. Now."

Sherlock stood silent for a moment, thinking up a thousand reasons why Lestrade was acting the way he was.

"I have no idea why John puts up with you."

Sherlock snapped around, eyes narrowed at the man.

"What did you say?"

Lestrade glared right back, and opened his mouth with venom to spare.

"You heard what I said. No, get. Out."

Sherlock did not say anything else.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun finally showed its face at a brisk 9 A.M., a little late for London. The residents of the rainy city, though, moved through the fog as if they were hunters on the trail of fresh prey. John hoped that Sherlock didn't see him as prey.

Surgery was blissfully climatic, no calm in the room. Blood flowed freely from a half-dead man's chest and a woman screamed as her daughter flat lined. It was these conditions that John thrived in, when he could lose himself in the magic of the fire. It was like his shackles were unlocked, and the man soon found himself twitching as the clock clicked down to his leave. He had to go to 221B- not home, no, never home-eventually, right?

His cuts thrummed with sweet pain, mixed in with a drug like feeling of nirvana. The blade called to him just like danger did- a jealous lover with touchy hands a little too eager to please the target. It was sickening yet so captivating at the same time.

The rain greeted him as Sarah's talons left his body and quickly through himself through the downpour, as if the purity of the water would wash away the memories and venom. Nothing, not even the strongest acid or a bullet to the brain stem could wash away Sherlock's wordless betrayal.

Like a dancer who lost herself to the song, John swayed, lifted his head a tad bit and closed his eyes. Oh, if only his flat mate knew- knew the pain that was flushing through his veins, pouring out of the precise cuts that marred his flesh.

He reached the flat with a slick stride, forgetting the limp; oh the razor took care of that better than any chase through blood-soaked alleys. Sherlock was hard at work doing something he deemed worthy of his time, and John whisked past him without a glance.

John was lost in the ecstasy of the pain, blind to Sherlock's worried look. The blood was flowing again, pumping faster and faster as the cuts pulled wider and wider under his sleeves. It licked at his thin paper arm and curled down his fingers. A single drop hit the floor.

Sherlock's arm shot out, and the blood soaked portion of the shirt was warm against the cold man's palm.

"What?" John snapped, snapping his arm back. The pain was gone, now, and the memories came back. John almost cried the dryness of the situation. That man who caused the pain took away his salvation. For what?

"What the bloody Hell do you think you're doing, Sherlock?"

John growled like a wolf, and Sherlock's eyes glowed with hate. They both glared and bore teeth like animals ready to slaughter.

"What happened to your arm?" The taller man asked, hissing and twisting his thin body. Actually, for the first time since their meeting, John's frame was slimmer. Bones peaked through skin, ready to burst through and burry themselves in the ground.

"Hurt myself at work." John snapped, almost smiling at how professional he lied. "You grabbing me isn't helping, now is it?"

Sherlock did not seem amused, but nodded sharply.

"Let me take a look."

"And what? Have you pour acid into my veins instead of alcohol? No thank you, I can take perfectly good care of myself.

"Apparently not." Sherlock huffed and turned around to grab the first aid kit. It was no surprise it was in arms reach, especially with Sherlock as the flat's resident.

"Now roll up your sleeve." Sherlock ordered and turned around with gauze and antibiotics in hand.

John was nowhere to be seen.


	4. Chapter 4

John's breath was labored, but not by the strain of running down two flights of stairs. His heart thrummed with fear that he had not experienced since he'd been a mere boy. The streets of London were alight with activity- shady figures lurking in alley ways and groups of young teens laughing and gallivanting down the sidewalks.

No one had ever been this close to discovering his secret, not since his seventeenth year of life. That was, however, a story for a different time.

John continued to walk down the street without a trace of a limp, ignored by the population. If anyone saw the red marks on his sleeve, they did not say anything. Not that he expected, or even hoped, they would. He'd carried these scars, some faded to pale from the years of the Army, others so fresh they hadn't even closed up, for years and it was second nature to hide them.

Perhaps it was part of the illness.

When the day faded into dark; and John found himself at a park, his attention snapped back into full awareness. He wasn't afraid of the dark, not of the drug parties that he could hear from the wood's depths, but he was wary of what Sherlock would do. No doubt the stupid bugger would be digging through his drawers, searching for the truth behind the blood.

John rubbed his back pocket; the razor nestled oh so sweetly there. The rest were hidden in under a loose floorboard. Hopefully the Detective would think that John would be one to hide things in plain sight. As the Veteran pondered the thought, the razors actually _were _hidden in plain sight.

"You look lost."

John spun around, and in the dim lights from the park he caught sight of dark hair and bright eyes. The voice, too, sounded like the owner had just wandered from one of the drug parties.

"Just taking a stroll." John replied smoothly, playing with the hem of his shirt. This man seemed friendly, but months with Sherlock had proven that you could not trust any face. Everyone could be a threat, and John cursed as he felt for his Browning. A gun would be best, but he knew how much damage a razor blade could make. The pressure it took to break through the fat, into the muscle, to the vein…

"Aye, lovely night for one." The man chuckled, coming forth so the light could illuminate his features. "Wife kicked me out, but I'd rather be here than listening to her bitch at meh."

John shook his head, a light smile on his face, "My name's John. John Watson, yours?"

"Kenneth James." The man tipped his baseball cap, before placing it back on and shoving his hands into his pocket. It took all of John's strength not to tense up.

"Aren't you the new doctor? From America?" John asked, recognizing the name quickly after the slight fear faded.

"Yup!" Kenneth smiled wide, "I was waitin' to see if ya recognized the name."

As the two continued on, John learned that Kenneth's wife was six months along, he had a girl named Kat and a black lab named Winston. John laughed at that, asking if he'd named it after Churchill. Kenneth nodded shyly, laughing along.

The two stayed like that, all night until dawn broke, laughing and sharing stories on a stray park bench.

And for a few hours, John forgot about the blades, the cutting, and the stress he'd left behind at 221 Baker Street.

For a few hours, John was _free._

**A/N: **We_ll, I hope you enjoyed this. I sat down (finally) and typed this up (Maybe now my friends will leave me alone, huh? You know who you are.) Please comment, I'm newer at writing full length stories (AND FINISHING THEM) so I need a lot of help. _

_Thank you very much for reading, and hopefully I can add another chapter soon!_


	5. Chapter 5

The warm feeling in John's stomach did not last long. It was at least two hours after Kenneth left before he hauled himself up and made his way back to 221 B. In reality, he had no wish to go back.

The stairs leading up were dusted with morning dew, the little imprints of the Landlady's feet trailing up sloppily. The place where the newspaper usually laid was still bare of the morning's condensation, so the residents were awake. Good Lord, he was turning into Sherlock…

Feeling for the key in his pocket, John slid it into the lock and stepped into the warmth of the landing. Mrs. Hudson's door was ajar just a tad and the smell of fresh tea wafted out. However, he had things to attend to first.

"Sherlock, are you awake?" John called out as he stepped into the flat, hanging his coat neatly on the rack and slipping off his shoes. When there was no response he headed toward the kitchen to warm up the kettle. His hands prickled at the sudden change of temperature, the skin slowly warming up from the flat's heated air. Just as he set the kettle down on the stove top, a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"The bloody Hell!?" John shouted, pushing the figure off of him, hissing with pain from the impact.

"Where were you?" Sherlock's cold voice seemed to seep into his skin, chilling it more than the air outside.

"What does it matter to you?" John bit back, wincing as the razor blade in his pocket poked curiously at his lower back. "I know for sure I'm not the only one gallivanting around—"

"Where. Were. You?" The man, _this couldn't be Sherlock, not this voice that should belong to a nightmarish figure_, asked. John glared at his flat mate, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn't act this way unless he'd found something that had set him on edge.

John's stomach dropped.

"I took a walk, met up with a friend." He told Sherlock calmly, resisting the urge to throw the man off of him. Sure, he might be crippled, but he was by no means_ weak. _

"Why is it that I don't trust you, Watson?" Sherlock's voice added a little more warmth, but in no way loving. Just alive. Nothing more.

"I'm not lying to you," John voiced quickly, almost afraid that his flat mate had gone mad. Never poke a wild animal with a stick, his mother always use to say. At least, when she wasn't screaming at his father, that is. Hastily, John got his mind back on track.

"Are you sure you weren't off getting high?" Sherlock hissed, throwing a container at John with no suspended rage. Tears pricked at the ex-army man's eyes. **No. **_**No no no no no no….**_"Slicing open your arms until you _pass out?" _

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" John faked calm once again, his heart out of control in his narrow ribcage. John was lucky that layers of flesh kept out the sound.

"What else have you hid, John?" Sherlock bit at the obvious lie, "A chest of razor blades and gauze? What else should I search for?"

John felt rage rise in his blood, wanting to run _and run and never come back _but his feet refused to move. Like a cornered animal, he was stuck.

"Why were you in my room, Sherlock?"

"_Why were you trying to kill yourself?" _Sherlock screamed back, his voice turning from low to a shrill cry of an animal that had just made a kill, a mix of hate and victory. A sickening noise that tore John's ears to shreds.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself, Sherlock! Why won't you listen?" John howled back, surprised that their Landlady hadn't stormed up and smacked them both upside the head for disturbing her morning tea.

Sherlock's blue eyes glazed over with a mixture of rage, hate, disgust and something John had never seen before; confusion.

"How many do you have on you now, John? How much blood did you spill last night?" Sherlock growled, no, snarled. His hands were clenched tight, eyes darting down to John's pockets and the long sleeves that clung to his arms. John pulled his arms tight to his chest as Sherlock lashed out one bony limb to grab at his wrist.

"Sherlock!"

John was, for perhaps the first time in a long time, afraid. Afraid to lose Sherlock, afraid for his cuts to be seen, and afraid for what was next.

"Let me see them, John." When the shorter man didn't give his arm to Sherlock, he grabbed John's wrist and pulled it back with the strength that did not match his body.

John screamed, not of the pain of week-old cuts ripping open and pouring blood at an alarming rate, but of hate and betrayal. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

The cuts, fresh and sore now, were bright red as Sherlock slid John's sleeve up, pulling each cut wider and wider as the fabric slid against it. When a tear slid down John's cheek, Sherlock didn't stop, just pulled harder at the sleeve. Like the sign of weakness annoyed him.

Sherlock took one look at the cuts, then the razors blades scattered all over the kitchen floor and the blood. Then, without another word, stormed out the door.

John slid to the floor, the razors digging into his skin, then picked up one and hugged it to his chest. Rocking back and forth, he cried and whispered to himself. Knowing there was cameras in the flat (_Goddamn Mycroft!) _he hid his face in his legs and just shook until his bones seemed to rattle.

"_No…." _

_Face down in the dirt, she said,_

"_This doesn't hurt,"_

_Do you feel like a __**man**__?_

_When you push her around? _

-Face Down by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

**A/N: **Good Lord, that was triggering to write. Anyway, this is what you get when I get in one of my "moods". So enjoy, and please keep giving me your lovely comments because honestly that's the only reason I keep writing. Heh. By the way, I won't be mentioning Sherlock's drug addiction much so just pretend he went to rehab and it worked, yes? Alright. I hope you liked this, and goodnight.


End file.
